


this corner of a crumbling world

by Sroloc_Elbisivni



Series: there was naught before remembrance was [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Atlantis: The Lost Empire Fusion, F/M, Multi, Tags to be added, That's right IT'S BACK, in which york and carolina are both milo thatch and they got married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-18 07:56:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10612563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sroloc_Elbisivni/pseuds/Sroloc_Elbisivni
Summary: York and Carolina's research on Atlantis has had its ups and downs over the years, but ending up unemployed after the museum rejects their funding is absolutely a down. Running into a wealthy and eccentric gentleman with a connection to Carolina's mother and a curious parcel, however, is turning out to be a definite up.Meanwhile, below the surface, the King of Atlantis races against time to rediscover lost secrets of the past before the ancient city crumbles for good.Or: the Disney Atlantis AU no one really asked for but that I'm writing anyways.





	1. Chapter 1

“First off, gentlemen, I’d like to thank the board for coming to today’s presentation. I know you have very full schedules, what with drinking so much wine and debating which cultural artifacts would sell for the most to private collectors—“

 _”York."_ Carolina gave him a chastising look from where she was manning the projector. "We’re asking them for money. Behave.”

York sighed dramatically, but started over. “Gentlemen, I’d like to begin by thanking the members of the board for coming to hear today’s proposal. Now, I’m sure everyone in this room knows of the fabled Atlantis—a continent somewhere in the mid-Atlantic that was home to an advanced civilization, possessing technology far beyond our own. Now, according to numerous sources, including Plato—“ The projected slide changed to show a picture of an old manuscript page, written in Greek. “—this civilization was struck by some cataclysmic event, a natural disaster that cut it off from the rest of the world. Rather like the destruction of Pompeii by Vesuvius, only affecting a far more isolated community. 

“Some of you may ask—why Atlantis? It’s just a myth, isn’t it? Fantasy. Well, that is where you’d be wrong.” Slide change to show the Egyptian pyramids. “Before the Egyptians built the pyramids, Atlantis had electricity, advanced medicine—even the power of flight.” Carolina changed the slides as he spoke, showing pictures from various sources backing up his claims. 

York went on to describe the tales of a power source, and the evidence of an illuminated manuscript, the Shepard’s Journal. Even just speaking the name aloud gave him goosebumps. He and Carolina had both been working _so long_ to find even a shred of evidence, and now it seemed what was practically a tourist’s guidebook could still be extant, just waiting for them to find it. 

He paused after Carolina shut off the projector so he could make use of the chalkboard. When he just stood behind the podium, hesitant, she flapped a hand at him. “Well? Go on, you’re doing fine!”

“Carolina—you’re the one who discovered the translation discrepancy, I don’t want to—“

She let out an explosive sigh. “We’ve been _over_ this, York. As soon as I come into it as anything more than your wife, or even your assistant, we lose any shred of credibility and our last shot at a funded expedition. They’re already going to think you’re crazy.”

“This isn’t fair. You’ve worked longer and harder on this than I have—you’re the one who found the shield—“

“But you did most of the legwork on the runes. Besides, this is just how the world—“

The shrill ringing of a phone cut off their building argument, and York sighed. He was closer. “Would you gentlemen excuse me for a moment?” he asked the masks he had set up as a fake audience. That actually managed to startle a chuckle out of his wife, and he pointed at her victoriously before tilting down the chalkboard and leaning across it to pick up the phone. “Cartography and linguistics, York Richards speaking.” He had to immediately hold the speaker away from his ear as someone started squawking down it loudly. “Uh-huh? Uh-huh. The radiator in the offices again?”

He could hear Carolina groan, and then scraping noises as she pushed the masks and chairs out of the way to get to the boiler. “Excuse me, gentlemen. Pardon me, Mr. Higgenbottom. One side, please, you rich old bastards.”

God, he loved her. 

“Just a second,” York told Mrs. Marshall. He peered back over his shoulder at the sound of clanking and hissing gears in time to see Carolina whack the main oven of the furnace and give him a thumbs up. He could hear the pipes clanging to life overhead. 

“That better?” he asked the phone, and then had to hold it away again as she yelled at him some more. “You have a good day too.”

_”And don’t let it happen again!”_

York rolled his eyes as he hung up. “That was exciting. Now, where was—“ He tried to dust off his hands on his front, but they came away coated in chalk. “Whoops.”

“York, _honestly.”_ Carolina came and stood in front of him, dusting off the front of his vest. Her eyes glowed right at him when she smiled. “How did you ever get taken seriously?”

“I didn’t, it was great.” He grinned right back at her.

She leaned forward to give him a hug and sighed into his shoulder. “This could be it. We could finally be getting out of the dungeon.”

“Hey, don’t knock this dungeon. I like this dungeon.” He squeezed her back. “I will have very fond memories of this dungeon.”

The clock chiming cut off any response she could have made. She pulled back, head tilted to count the _cuckoos._

“Four o’clock.”

“Showtime.”

There was a rattling from the corner, and they both looked over to see a message tube come down from above.

“Were you expecting anything?”

“Not that I remember.” York was closer, so he grabbed it first and read it out loud for her benefit. “Dear Mr. Richards, this letter is to inform you that…your meeting…moved from four-thirty to _three-thirty?_

He was too shocked to get the next one as it came down, so that fell to Carolina. 

“Dear Mr. Richards—“ she cut off, and when she spoke again, her tone was furious. “Due to your absence, the board has voted to _reject_ your proposal.”

He offered her his letter, and they swapped, and when he was done he looked up to see her storming towards the stairs. 

He grabbed his maps and their coats and ran after her to make sure she didn’t do too much damage to Mr. Hargrove. 

* * *

 

"Hargrove." Carolina's tone was icy and just barely on the correct side of polite. 

"Ah, Mrs. Richards. Is your husband here?"

"Is my _husband--"_

"Yes, yes I am," York said hastily, entering the room and surreptitiously dropping his burden on the floor. Carolina took a step back, breathing deeply through her nose and holding very tightly onto her temper while he spoke. "Mr. Hargrove, I just wanted to ask if it would be possible to resubmit my proposal. The meeting was rescheduled so abruptly, after all. I'm sorry if I seemed irresponsible."

"Ah." Mr. Hargrove carefully adjusted the blotter on his desk. "No, I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr. Richards."

"Doctor," York muttered quietly. And then, louder, "Can I ask why?"  

"Because this museum deals in fact. Not fiction, not fantasy, and certainly not _fairy tales._ " His voice dripped with derision. 

"Mr. Hargrove." Carolina had regained some control over her voice. "We--my husband has collected extensive evidence to support his proposal. It couldn't hurt to simply allow the board to hear us out. No great expeditions were ever undertaken without risk, after--"

"Mrs Richards." Hargrove's interruption was cool and flat. "I have made myself clear. This foolish crusade of your husband's to find a "lost city" straight out of a storybook will only lead to disaster, and I will not have my museum's reputation besmirched. I'm sorry that it's too late for you. I had high hopes for you, I truly did, but it seems that your father's good standing cannot overcome your mother's delusions--"

York didn't move to stop her when she punched Hargrove in the face. 

He just waited until she was standing next to him again, rubbing her knuckles and enjoying the stunned look on Hargrove’s face, to announce, "We quit."

 

* * *

 

They took the trolley back to their apartment together, arms around each other’s shoulders and hunched over the maps to protect them from the rain. 

“I’m sorry,” Carolina said quietly, as the carriage turned onto Morningside. “That was—stupid of me.”

York gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Well, I was the one who said we quit. We’d done all the research we could do already. And the jobs weren’t that great.”

“Maybe, but they were still _jobs.”_ She huffed out a sigh. “And now—none of the other museums will be hiring, not after the dragging Hargrove’s about to give your reputation. We’ll have to move.”

Neither of them mentioned how difficult York’s eye would make it to find temporary work. 

“The rent’s paid through the end of the year. We’ll have time to look. For now, let's just...go home. Put away the maps, get some sleep, new plan in the morning."

Carolina sighed, drooping her head onto his shoulder. "I'm for it."

 

* * *

 

Carolina pushed the door open so York could hang onto the maps. 

"Delta, we're home!" he called out to the apartment. Usually, Delta was on them both as soon as they got home from work, winding around York's legs and demanding food. "Here, kitty kitty."

York set the maps on the table and turned to move the door's various latches into place while Carolina went for the lights. There was the clicking of the switch, but the apartment stayed as dim as the storm outside. _"Mac an donais."_

York sighed, slid home the last deadbolt, and turned around just in time to see a skinny silhouette against the window lit up by a flash of lightning. "York and Carolina Richards?"

Carolina reached into her purse and tugged out her pistol, cocking the hammer and aiming it at the skinny man in a flattering dress. 

"Whoa!" the stranger yelped. "Why does a historian have a gun?"

"I am a _linguist._ Who are you and why are you in our apartment?" Her voice was deadly cold, and York moved up behind her.

"And where did you get that dress, because I want one," York chimed in, trying to break the mood.

"York, not now."

"Yes, dear."

Carolina's grip and aim were both still steady. "I'll ask one more time and then I start shooting. Who are you, and how--"

"Alright, alright, I get it! Don't shoot! Geez. My name is Felix Gates, I came here on behalf of my employer.” Gates seemed to regain some of his confidence, leaning back against the window and casually crossing his arms. “He has a proposal that he thinks you would find…interesting."

“I’m already married, not sure I could handle another interesting proposal,” York murmured.

Carolina didn't so much as let a smile twitch, but she did uncock the hammer of her pistol. “And who, exactly, is your employer?”

* * *

 

The estate was imposing in the dead of night, the wrought-iron S worked into the tall gates only visible between flashes of lightning. Carolina stared out the window, keeping Gates in the corner of her eye. York was on her left, his hand clasped around her own on the seat. 

The inside of the mansion was opulent. Carolina’s suspicions about the rug were only confirmed by Gates warning them “not to drip on the Caravaggio.”

It reminded Carolina of her father’s house, of the New York social scene and the endless grinding parties of her younger summers. Of all the time she had spent longing to escape back to boarding school and Vassar. 

It made her twitchy and restless and she didn’t like it one bit. York reached his hand out again and she grabbed onto it with almost panicky relief. 

He squeezed reassuringly, and in the elevator, murmured a line from Beowulf in the original old English. _“So stay resolute, my lord, defend your life now with the whole of your strength. I shall stand by you.”_

 _“Your pronunciation is still awful,”_ Carolina murmured back in German, but she let her spine relax. 

Gates leaned against the wall, nattering at both of them. “Keep your sentences short and to the point, speak only when spoken to, address him as “Mr. Sarge” or “sir.” Clear?”

“As crystal,” York told him. Carolina squeezed her husband’s hand harder. 

“And relax,” Gates told them both as the elevator slid to a halt and the doors opened. “He doesn’t bite. Often.”

Carolina took a deep breath, and walked forward, York right behind her. 

* * *

 

Of all the things Carolina had been expecting, a short, stocky old man in a robe doing upside down calisthenics was not one of them.

Of course, he turned right side up as soon as he saw her and grinned. “Well, aren’t you the spitting image of your mother?"

Carolina blinked, trying to erase certain images from her mind. “I’m—pardon me, sir?”

“Oh, where are my manners?” He offered her his hand and she let go of York’s to shake it. “Preston Sarge. Pleased to meetcha, Carolina. Don’t bother with the ’sir’—any daughter of Allison’s welcome in my home. And you must be Doc Richards.” He shook York’s hand as well.

“You knew my mother?” Carolina asked. 

Mr. Sarge turned to a side table and picked up an old photograph, passing it to her. It showed her mother—younger than Carolina could ever remember seeing her, in a sturdy traveling dress with a notepad in one hand and a pistol in the other. A reporter’s hat was perched jauntily on her head. The grin on her face, wide and sharp and with just a hint of a smirk, was nothing like the calm smile in the formal portrait of her that loomed large in Carolina’s memories. Still, the twinkle in her eye was the same and this version of her felt much more…real. The same man that stood before them now was also in the picture, cackling madly in the background and holding his own gun, thankfully not pointed at either her mother or the photographer. 

York brushed up behind Carolina, peering over her shoulder. “She does look like you.” He tapped the glass. “You get the exact same smile about—when you’re really excited with your research.” He cast a careful look up at Mr. Sarge. 

“Met your mother in the war with the Spanish. I served in the 88th Battalion—she was a reporter. Supposed to stay nice and tucked away at base camp, but Allison never could resist the action at the front. Saved my life more than a few times. After the war, she dragged me along on a couple of her expeditions. Crazy as fruit bat, she was.” He spoke of her with such affection that Carolina couldn’t even be angry. “We didn’t talk much after she got married, but we never stopped writing.” Mr. Sarge pulled a pipe from his pocket and started tamping down tobacco. "She spoke of you often.”

“She never mentioned you.” Carolina carefully set the picture down.

“Well, I like my privacy. And didn’t like your father.” Mr. Sarge snorted as he lit his pipe. “He didn’t like me much either. Thought I encouraged your mother past what was “proper.”” The distaste in his voice was encouraging. “Sorry to drag you out on a night like tonight, but Allison left me something for you not long before she died. Asked me to give it to you when you were ready.” He regarded them both. “Thought your husband might be interested as well. On that table over there.”

Carolina crossed the room, York only a step behind her, and found a package wrapped in brown paper and string. She hadn’t realized she remembered her mother’s handwriting, but seeing her name written out in Allison's sharp and clear hand sent a stab of grief through her.

The wrapping came away easily with a few tugs, and Carolina’s heart almost stopped when she saw it. “It—no.” She was fluent in fifteen different languages and conversant in another twelve, but they all failed her now. “This—“ She spun around and held it out to York. “It’s—it’s the _Shepard’s Journal.”_

York looked from the journal to her back to the journal, and she shook it at him more insistently. He took it with trembling hands and carefully opened it up, leafing through the pages as Carolina looked at them upside down. Various symbols jumped out at her, but her mind was too full of turmoil to do any full translations.

“It’s—Mr. Sarge, this journal is the key, the ultimate key, to finding the lost continent of Atlantis.” Carolina turned to face him, shaking with things she couldn’t name. 

“Atlantis? Ha! I wasn’t born yesterday, missy.”

“No, no, no,” York blurted out, flipping through even faster. “These are—coordinates, clues, everything, it’s all _right here.”_

“Looks like gibberish.”

“Because it’s written—“ “It’s recorded in—“ They spoke over each other, and had to stop and trade glances. Carolina took over while York went back to reading. 

“It’s written in a dialect that no longer exists, but we—we’ve both spent our lives studying languages, dead languages. It’s not gibberish.”

“Well, ain’t that nice. Could be a fake.”

Carolina had to pause and take a very deep breath, inhaling the scent of vellum and leather and dust. She could hear York snap the book shut behind her, but held up a hand to stop him. 

“Mr. Sarge. My mother would have _known_ if this were a fake. I would know. _We_ would know. I am prepared to stake everything I own, everything I believe in, everything I have ever done, that this is the genuine Shepard’s Journal.” York stepped up next to her, and she set her hand on the cover. “And we will use this to find Atlantis even if we have to do it on our own in—in—in a leaky rowboat!” Her calm deserted her, and she almost shouted the last few words. York’s hand came up to her shoulder in unspoken, unwavering support.

Mr. Sarge had taken a seat at a long table, a sharp grin spreading across his face.

“Well. Aren’t you the firecracker. But forget the rowboat…” He pressed a button, and the tabletop slid back to raise up a series of models of fantastical ships. “We’ll travel in style.”

Carolina was, once again, struck speechless.

“It’s all been arranged, the whole can of beans.”

“Why?” Carolina and York spoke in unison, both with voices faint with surprise. 

“Well…” Sarge sighed, suddenly looking very old. “For years, your ma bent my ear with stories about that book. Finally, I got fed up, made a bet. “Allison,” I told her, “If you ever find that so-called journal, not only will I fund your entire expedition, I’ll give you my best gun!” He gestured at an empty shotgun mount on the wall. “Much to my regret when she did. Shoulda known better.” He shook his head. “I know she’s gone, god rest her soul, but I am a man who keeps my promises, and I’m going to the afterlife with a clear conscience, by thunder!”

He thumped his fist on the table, and then sighed and slumped forward, just a bit, looking older than he had since they’d arrived. “Your mother was a great woman. A great person. One of the best I’ve ever known. Your father—he loved her, but he dragged her down. The world got to her, too. She shoulda been the toast of every college with the sense to open its doors to her. Shoulda been able to fight her way to a spot on the museum board, a place in history. Shoulda been able to make some damn history herself, somewhere besides the damn society pages.” He shook his head again, more slowly. “Ah, pardon an old man’s bitterness. If I could just have one shred of proof—one last thing to build on the legacy she deserved—that’d be enough for me.”

Sarge stared off in reverie for a moment and then shook his head and leapt to his feet. "But what're we standing around for? You have to get going."

"A mission this big, you'll need--geologists, engineers." 

"Got 'em. Best of the best." He spread a sheaf of files out. "Franklin Donut, mechanical engineer. Don't let his age fool you, he's forgotten more about engines than you or I'll ever know. David Washington, demolitions expert. Don't trust him near anything you want to stay in one piece. Reginald Wyoming, geologist. Man has a nose for dirt." Sarge tapped the file. "He was part of the first team that brought the journal back."

"Where was it?" 

Sarge carefully set down another photo, Allison at the center of a group of strangers, the journal in her hands and the sea in the background. "Iceland."

Carolina grabbed York's hand and squeezed it. "You were _right."_  

"All we need now are a couple of experts in gibberish." He gave them a meaningful look. 

Carolina met York's eyes. "Our jobs--"

"We resigned this afternoon," he pointed out, barely restrained giddiness in his voice.

"Our books!"

"Already in storage," Sarge told them. "I don't like to leave loose ends."

"Our cat?" York tried.

There was a _mrrow_ and Delta hopped up on the table, stretching out over the reports. "Hey, get off of there," York muttered, scooping him up. "Well. Alright then."

Carolina turned to look at Sarge. A grin was spreading across her face, wide and sharp and with just a hint of a smirk. "When do we start?"

 

* * *

 

“Kimball!” 

Kimball heard Tucker’s shout, but kept her focus on the pad in front of her. 

“Crystal” was an easy word to read. As were “hand,” and “left,” and “right.” The rest of it, though, was a mystery to her. 

She put the crystal in the slot, turning it from side to side and felt it click in a loud and resonant way. She could see the lines along the side and reached back for fuzzy memories, imagining them illuminated and glowing in the forefront of her mind before exhaling slowly. She drew in another deep breath as she placed her hand on the pad and removed the crystal, closing her eyes and willing the machine to start.

Nothing.

She let out a frustrated yell and kicked a nearby clump of dirt before pulling the crystal's cord back over her head and climbing back over the rocks.

Tucker had his sword at the ready, glowing crystal-bright. “There you are. I finally found Grif.”

“How many more places can he hide?” Kimball wondered, picking up her own spear where it rested on the ground. “You’d think we’d have found them all by now.”

“He was out at the edge of the city. The part that collapsed last year.”

They both went silent, sobered by the reminder of their home's endless, slow decline. 

“Either way, we’ve got him and Simmons for patrol. Caboose is looking for rocks to befriend the lava dogs with, so he should stay out of trouble for now.”

“And Doyle?” Kimball didn’t bother hiding her frustration. If Tucker hadn’t been around to hear the earlier fight, the gossip network should have informed him by now.

“I really don’t know.”

“Probably safeguarding more secrets he refuses to tell us,” she muttered, viciously. 

Tucker, probably wisely, started for the edge of the city instead of engaging. Kimball went after him, still internally fuming. 

By the time they reached the bridge, though, her mood had lifted. It was a beautiful day, the fish were sending up sparkling drops against the roiling clouds of steam rising from the lava, and there were more secrets to explore within the caves and tunnels than Doyle could ever hope to keep hidden from her forever. She would find her answers one of these days.

“Fucking finally,” Grif complained when they arrived. He and Simmons were leaning on their spears, masks already on so they looked more like spirits than men. “Now can we just go dick around in the caves and not find anything?” 

"Again?” Simmons added.

Kimball gave an especially sharp grin as she pulled on her own mask, the attached mane falling down around her shoulders. “You never know, Simmons. Something could come along any day now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So clearly the solution to guilt about not having an update ready for "tread our little arcs" was to start another Yorkimbalina WIP, right? Right.  
> Updates to follow. Sporadically.  
> Title from Conrad Aiken because I have a problem.  
> You know, I had a reason for making York's last name Richards but I absolutely cannot remember what it was.  
> Thank you to everyone who was in the original chat for the stream Steph did of the movie a while back because without a doubt this would not be here without it.  
> Come talk to me on [ Tumblr](sroloc--elbisivni.tumblr.com) if you want to know more about this verse or my leaky OT3 canoe which I love to bits.


	2. The Launch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aboveground, an expedition gets underway and introductions are made. 
> 
> Below it, duty is discussed. In loud voices.

The atmosphere in the launch bay was electric, humming with anticipation on all sides. Wash leaned against his cart, waiting for a clump of soldiers to move so he didn’t have to jostle the nitroglycerin too much getting around them. 

“Excuse me, sir. I think you dropped your dynamite.”

 Wash groaned and turned around to see a red-haired woman holding a fallen stick of dynamite out to him. She wore a functional brown traveling coat with a blue skirt sticking out the bottom and a knapsack slung over her back with a roll of paper sticking out.

“Uh, thank you,” Wash said, awkwardly retrieving his dynamite. “I’m usually more responsible with explosives than this.” He stuffed the stick in with the rest of it. 

“What do you have in there, anyways?”

“Eh…” Wash considered it. “Gunpowder, nitroglycerin, cherry bombs notepads, fuses, wicks, and…paper clips. Big ones.” He demonstrated, holding his hands a foot apart. “You know. Office supplies.”

“Sounds about right. Although most of the offices I worked in had a dictionary.” She sized him up in one brisk, assessing gaze. "I take it you’re…Washington?”

“Just Wash. Please.” He examined her right back. “And you are…”

“Linguist and cartographer. Carolina Richards.” She held out her hand again and he shook it this time. “Since I helped you find your dynamite, I don’t suppose you could help me find my husband?”

 

* * *

 

Carolina hadn’t meant to get separated from York. They’d agreed he could have the Journal until the launch, which meant that he had spent the boat ride over with his nose buried in it and somehow wandered out of her sight while she had gotten distracted by an argument with Felix and the expedition’s cook, O’Malley. 

“It’s a _vegetable,_ O’Malley. The men need the four basic food groups.”

“I have your four basic food groups! Beans, bacon, whiskey, and lard! Not to mention the blood of my enemies for a fifth!”

Carolina had been left to find her way down to the launch bay at the sound of the alarm, and ended up running into the expedition’s demolitions man. Wash seemed nice enough, even if he had been too busy moving his cart to help her find York. 

Carolina just sighed, hiked her knapsack up a little further and moved towards the ramp. York would have to come this way eventually. 

“Carolina!” 

Or York would already be there, next to Sarge and a large, unfamiliar man in a military uniform. Sarge waved Carolina down. He was dressed in what would have passed for a dapper naval uniform if it wasn’t bright red.

“This is Carolina Richards,” Sarge was saying to the military man. “Allison’s kid. Carolina, this is commander Ortez. He led the original mission to Iceland that brought the journal back.”

Carolina extended her hand to shake with Ortez, who earned himself high marks in her book for just shaking her hand without making any remarks whatsoever regarding her gender. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I knew your mother well. The book has nice pictures, but I must admit, I prefer a good mystery myself.” 

“Not bad, eh?” Sarge cut in, gesturing to their surroundings—the enormous bay of the ship, the people moving everywhere, and the fantastical sub itself.

Carolina smilled. “I have to say, when you settle a bet, you settle a bet.” She moved in on York’s left, touching his elbow so he’d know she was moving into his space. “There you are.”

He looked up from the book and grinned at her. “I’ve been here the whole time, you’re the one who ran off,” he joked. 

“I did _not._ I turned around and you were gone.”

“Oops.” He didn’t sound sorry in the least.

“Your mother always said you couldn’t put a price on knowledge,” Sarge commented, tipping his head back to look at the sub.

York laughed, light and easy. “Well, all this could very well be small change compared to the value of what we’re going to learn on this trip.”

“Yes,” Commander Ortez agreed, turning to look at the ship himself. “This should be enriching for all of us.”

The alarm sounded out, and a voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the final boarding call. York transferred the Journal to his other hand so he could grab onto Carolina’s and give it a squeeze. 

This was finally happening. 

“It seems our time is up,” Ortez observed. “Mr. Sarge.” He nodded before heading up the gangplank.

Carolina led the way up the ramp, stopping at the top to turn and wave a farewell. “Goodbye!”

“Make us proud!” he called after them as the door shut with a _clang._

 

* * *

 

Because space on the ship was limited, York and Carolina would be splitting up into the barracks instead of rooming together, and because York had gotten the Journal on the ride over, Carolina stole it back before she went off to find her quarters.

York occupied himself shuffling slides on the way up to the bridge. Now that they didn’t have to look right for the museum, he could let Carolina take over the presentations. She had always been better at the talking, anyways.

 _Copied page, Viking pictures, carvings, naked—whoops, better hide that one._ He shoved that particular slide deep into his pocket. Must not have been careful enough when he was collecting things at home during the last-minute packing rush.

York continued shuffling the slides even after he’d checked them all, enjoying the feeling of them clacking between his fingers.

 _Dum duh dum duh dum,_ he thought, tapping a rhythm out as he tromped up the metal staircase to the main bridge and looked around for where he was supposed to be.

It didn’t take him long to spot the projector and screen conveniently located off to one side, or long to get it set up and ready for him to use.

Just as he was testing the slides, regrettably, something under the projector popped out and he had to swear and bend down to fix it.

“Need some help there?” someone out of sight asked.

“Nah, I got it, ‘s no worse—” he grunted as he shoved the reel back into place. “—than the projector at the museum.” York hauled himself to his feet, dusted off his shirt, and extended his hand to an intimidating looking woman in black. “Dr. York Richards, cartography and linguistics consultant. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Tex.” Her grip was very strong. “What are you showing?” She had a slight accent that York couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, just some slides. Pages from the journal, a couple of maps, some carvings…” He started stacking the slides along the side of the projector. “My wife, the _other_ Dr. Richards, can explain it better than I can. ‘Fraid I trip over my tongue sometimes.”

She nodded. “I’ll let Niner know to call her up to the bridge. And I’ll let everyone else know to come see the show.”

Tex was as good as her word, and it didn’t take long for the first person to wander up. A surprisingly _familiar_ person at that.

“Grumpy florist guy!” York said, delighted.

Grumpy florist guy stopped after climbing up the ladder and stared, before rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “Weird broke husband.”

“So this is where you wandered off to.”

“It pays the bills. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Oh, right.” York holds out his hand to shake, again. “Dr. York Richards, cartography and linguistics. Also, projectionist.”

“Wash, explosives and dem—wait, _Richards_?”

“Yeeees?”

“Your wife was looking for you.” He paused. “You know, of all the times I imagined what kind of woman your wife was, I still never came close.”

“Really?” York decided not to ask what Wash had imagined.

“It’s unexpected.” Wash looked him over. “What happened to your eye?”

York ignored the familiar lurching feeling in his gut and tried for a light laugh instead. “Forgot to feed the cat for a couple of days, so he took payment out of my face.”

“Wash.” Tex had returned, and from the sound of her voice, she was not pleased. “Go make sure your ordnance won’t blow up my ship.”

“But the presentation—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Wash held up his hands in a position of surrender and vanished back down the ladder.

York let out a breath through his nose and nodded at Tex before he went back to organizing the slides.

Shortly afterwards, Carolina arrived, touching his left arm as she moved up into his space. “Hello there.”

“Hello to you too.”

“Thank the lord you called me when you did. The doctor for this mission is… _very_ enthusiastic.”

York chuckled. “Well, the slides are ready whenever you are.”

“Dr. Richards?”

Both of them turned around to see Tex.

“I don’t believe we’ve met yet.” She extended her hand to Carolina. “Tex.”

“Carolina Richards.” She tipped her head to the side, a thoughtful expression on, before asking something in Icelandic.

So _that_ was what Tex’s accent was.

Tex laughed as she let go. “You just asked me what part of the landscape I am.”

York snickered, and Carolina pinched him, a blush spreading. “I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to practice my Icelandic recently.”

“Dr. Richards, the presentation?” The commander was waiting with an enormously patient expression on.

“Right.” Carolina’s body language shifted into lecture mode, and York quickly moved to man the projector. “The Journal begins by describing a land journey, but for us the relevant text starts on page fourteen, with the Shepherd’s account of an underwater cavern…”

 

* * *

 

“Lord Doyle.” Kimball stood at the doorway of the little hut, watching as she blocked out the light.

Doyle just hummed absently and held his personal crystal up to the lamp until it brightened again. His attention never wavered from the tablet in front of him.

Kimball walked over as silently as possible and peered at it, but it was only a text in Low Script. A recipe for—

“ _Doyle_.” She dropped his title as her temper frayed further. “This is not the time to study up on how to cook catfish.”

“If not now, Captain, then when?” His voice, light and casual, entirely failed to assuage her mood.

“This is _serious_ , my lord.” She pulled the tablet away. “I need to know how to activate the flyers.”

“Oh, really? Whatever for, Captain?”

She sputtered. “To _explore._ To find food, to patrol the borders, to search for resources or—or _anything_.”

“The city provides for our needs, Captain,” he said, dismissively, taking the tablet and positioning it better in the light. “The city provides.”

“The city is _crumbling_ and dying, Lord Doyle,” she hissed. “A thousand years ago, we had the power to light the streets and the strength to slay intruders on sight. Now you and our other citizens cower in their homes and even the lamps flicker. We cannot continue like this.”

“You cannot have it both ways, _Captain_.” His voice was sharp, and for the first time, he turned from the tablet and strode towards the door. Kimball followed, furious.

“Your voice is the first to cry out for change, but you still will not move on from the Guard.”

She scoffed. “Your precious traditions have been crumbling since the _Maebehlmohk,_ Lord Doyle, but it seems your hypocrisy has not. How am I supposed to move if you will not show me which way to go?”

“We do not need to go _anywhere_ , Captain!” They were out on the street now, and she knew there was no point worrying about eavesdroppers. Everyone in the city would know of the argument by sundown whatever they did, but no one would mention it to either of them. “We are _safe_ in Atlantis!”

“For how much longer?” She had to hiss this under her breath, and _damn_ him for bringing the conversation out to the open air. No matter how bitterly she could joke with her guard; the entire city was still looking to her as the Captain to lead them through it.

No matter that the entire city knew they were standing on a cliff; she could not say out loud how close to the edge they were.

“You have a _duty_ , my lord, to give us guidance! To lead us through this.”

“Oh-ho, and you accuse _me_ of hypocrisy, _Captain?_ When it seems that you have forgotten _your_ duty?”

Kimball breathed deeply, closed her eyes, and turned away. It was fortunate she had left her spear back at the Guard-house, or else their city might be short one prominent figure right now.

“I will not have this fight with you again,” she said, quietly. “I know my duty, _Lord_ , to Atlantis and her people. I am doing my duty every day.”

There was silence for a long moment, until Doyle sighed.

“I know, Captain.”

“But you will still not tell me the secrets of the flying machines, my lord.”

“I will not, Captain.”

“Or anything else.”

“No, Captain.” His voice was as strong as the waterfalls. “Some things should remain in the past.”

“If things continue as they are, my lord, the only thing that will remain in the past is us. Forever.” Kimball remembered enough courtesy to at least salute before spinning on her heel and striding off into the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wash makes his return as Grumpy Florist Guy! Or, well, former grumpy florist guy. Plus a few more oddballs to help round out this cast of characters. You can probably guess who the Doctor Carolina encountered was. XD
> 
> Have one of those sporadic updates I mentioned. I'm trying to achieve that balance of reviewing just enough that people who haven't seen the movie will grasp what's going on and people who haven't won't be bored. 
> 
> Kimball and Doyle are fighting as usual. There's a....complicated power balance going on there. All will be revealed. Eventually. I will say that their titles are...well, "translations" is probably the most accurate definition. There are definitely other meanings happening in that conversation.


	3. Into the Caves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> York would never quite remember the crash, after.

York would never quite remember the crash, after.

He knew that Carolina had finished her presentation first, because he would never have remembered to repack his knapsack in the chaos of the leviathan attack.

He knew that there had been chaos, and heat, and the sound of breaking glass because the world had started fracturing and there had been many moments where he hadn’t been sure what was up or down or where he was or that he wasn’t back there on the docks when the boiler blew. Carolina was the only thing that kept him grounded, one of her hands around his and the other around the Journal.

After the lightboat had stopped spinning like a ride at Coney Island, York had been afraid to open his eyes, because some subconscious part of his mind was terrified that his other eye would be dark when he tried to open it.

When he had swallowed down his fear and forced his eyelids to rise, he did remember that the first thing he had seen was Carolina’s hand, wrapped in a white-knuckled grip around the spine of the Journal.

“We’re alive,” she was murmuring, like it was a mantra she’d been repeating. “We’re alive. We’re alive. We’re alive.”

York swallowed again, trying to work his dry mouth, and squeezed her hand. “We’re alive,” he rasped back.

But so many people weren’t.

Afterwards, when York’s racing heart had slowed, finally, and the world was no longer fracturing around them, he did remember the memorial.

Dr. Grey released a candle in a bowl onto the water of the underground lake, while Commander Ortez gave a eulogy. York leaned on his wife, arm wrapped around her shoulders, staring at the light reflected on the water and zoning out until he heard his name.

“—Richards. You and that little book.”

York looked down, but he could feel Carolina’s head lifting next to him, challenging the world enough for both of them.

 _We’re alive_.

* * *

 

Carolina had grown up in boarding schools and family houses. She was no stranger to living out of a suitcase and sharing her space with strangers.

She was also no stranger to sharing translation duties with her husband, but she had to admit it was nice that people came to her as soon as or before they went to York.

Sometimes.

“I’m _telling_ you, the runic annotations are _not_ reliable—”

“I’m not _saying_ it’s the runic annotations, I’m saying _under_ the runic annotations—”

“ _Docs_ .” Tex did not sound pleased. “Which _way_.”

“ _Left_!” They snapped at her in unison and she spun around and stalked away.

Carolina socked York in the shoulder.

“See?”

“I…guess…”  He turned a page, blinked, and spun the book around. “Wait a minute, that’s in Futhark—”

They locked eyes in a minute of sudden realization before spinning around and yelling “ _Right!”_

It was a little too late to avoid waking the giant centipede. Tex—not to mention Wyoming, who had been driving the drill up through the left eye socket of the giant stone skull—gave them both the cold shoulder for the rest of the day.

* * *

 

Despite the rough start, and the creeping unease that came from living underground, the whole expedition gradually adjusted to each other.

Wyoming stopped digging while people were sleeping. Carolina badgered Donut into letting her try and fix the boilers. Niner threatened all the soldiers into giving up their cigarettes, and consequently, her mood was tremendously improved.

York and Carolina passed the Journal back and forth to each other like it was their child, turning the pages and reading pieces to each other as their car moved along. Carolina drove, with York occasionally muttering advice about the clutch at her, after spending a few evenings practicing on the edges of camp. York’s eyesight wasn’t good enough anymore, especially not down here in the shadows under the earth where a mistake in depth perception could mean hitting the next car in line or tumbling over the side of an impossibly steep cliff.

York tried not to be sad about that. Driving had been one of those things, back when he had both his eyes, that he’d been able to pour his whole brain into, moving both feet and both hands for the clutch and the gas and the wheel and the stick and feeling like he was part of the machine. It had been a good feeling.

He tried to let it go and focus on reading and translating as Carolina maneuvered the little Ford they’d been trusted with along the winding paths, through caves and cold and cliffs. They had no idea how long the journey would take--the Shepard had been traveling on foot, not by automobile, and hadn’t kept terribly consistent measures in the first place. York was half convinced that the man had tallied weeks in increments of nine days, which made for an especially confusing calculation.

At night, the professors huddled together to share their shaky cartography skills, trying to trace their progress along thousand-year-old maps and through the dusty books that had been packed in with the general supplies. Occasionally they would strike up brief conversations with the rest of the group, usually because they needed extra information or even just another pair of eyes on the charts. Wyoming proved useful in reading geological surveys, while Felix turned out to have a usefully tricky mind for riddles and traps, once they’d been translated for him. Niner had an uncanny ability for direction. That had been an interesting evening, when they had made camp in a cave too warm for a fire, and the entertainment of choice had been blindfolding the pilot and spinning her around while someone else held the compass. Niner had been able to find true north, every single time.

Even on the dark nights, when they were huddled around each other in their sleeping bag and York was trying not to think about the miles of rock and ocean all the way over their heads, ready to fall down on them—he didn’t regret coming. He especially didn’t regret it when he heard someone asking for Doctor Richards and got waved off with a “Not you, the _other_ Doc Richards,” when he tried to help. Seeing other people acknowledge Carolina as an intellectual force to be reckoned with was worth a dozen dangerous expeditions.

* * *

 

It took a few weeks for family histories to come up around the evening campfire, but once they did, they come thick and fast.

It started with Donut defending O’Malley’s cooking to Wash by remembering a time when “you almost burned down the kitchen, remember?” and it came out that the two of them were brothers. Wash grumbled and dug into his meal, but Donut was happy to go on about the family farm in Iowa and the sisters they left behind and the sister who ran off to join the suffragettes. Dr. Grey dragged a chain of feathers from under her shirt and told them about her mother, in the tribal territory out west, and her father who went there after fighting for his freedom in the Civil War. Tex wouldn’t talk about her recent life, but she stared into the fire and told them about the geysers and volcanoes and the aurora borealis, about winter evenings that lasted till noon and stories that took days in the telling.

Felix and Locus had nothing to add, since they were spending the night at the other campfire, with the soldiers.

Carolina was holding the Journal tonight, so York had both of their plates on his lap, and she stole careful bites as she read. He was reading too, and occasionally tried to reach out to turn the page, only for her to smack away his incautious fork-holding hand.

“And how did you two lovebirds meet?” Niner asked, after telling stories of begging, bribing, and threatening her way into an official captain’s license, long after she’d learned to sail off her family’s home on the coast of Maine.

York and Carolina look up in unison, and trade glances. By dint of long practice, Carolina takes over the story, letting York go back to perusing the text.

“My father was pressuring me to get married. York was a teaching assistant looking to become a professor at the university where I worked. I found him tolerable and practical, and proposed a marriage of convenience so both of us could go about our lives without interference.”

York looked up in time to see the entire collective look from Carolina, to York, to Carolina again, where she’s thrown a leg over York’s own to get more comfortable, expressions dubious. Wash is the first one to break.

“No,” he says, bluntly. “You-- _no_.”

“What?” York asks, trying again to turn the page of the journal and having Carolina grab his wrist. “ _Ow,_ Lina.”

Carolina’s mouth quirked as she let him go. “It didn’t quite work out the way I planned. He kept bringing me flowers. York, if you get beans on this page, I will steal all of your trousers.”

“You already have,” York complained, and shifted around to get comfortable as the conversation moved on around them.

* * *

 

Doyle’s revenge for the most recent argument was to assign Kimball to municipal duties for the next several ninedays, exercising his authority over her in a way he rarely chose to do.

Kimball would never dream of arguing, and she knew very well that no part of Atlantis—or her people—could be below the sight of the Captain of the Guard. And it did give her the chance to interact with some of the junior Guard members considered too young to leave the city.

But if Palomo got excited and sounded _another_ false alarm, Kimball was going to assign him to stone-breaking duty for the next century. No matter how well he could work the Guard’s trick of resolving disputes by making those bringing grievances angry at him instead of each other. She rather thought Bitters could be good at it, too, if it wasn’t for the determination to avoid all work that he had unfortunately acquired from Grif.

Kimball couldn’t leave everything to them, of course. Normally, arbitration was three days of her usual nine, because no matter how capable the younger Guard members were, all of them were children of the underground. Not a one of them had been born before the _Maebehlmohk,_ and many elder residents of the city were not happy to bring their problems before those they saw as children.

Many of them were not happy to bring their problems before Kimball, either, but that was why Doyle took one day of every nine to hold audiences of his own. Atlantis’s ruling lord was senior enough for even the most crotchety elder.

Of course, Doyle usually ended up passing those problems along to Kimball, but, well. That was how it went.

Even with those regular efforts, it seemed over the course of Kimball’s assignment that everyone in the city had a grievance or two or ten to bring before the Captain of the Guard. When she wasn’t hearing disputes, Kimball was working to mend weakening buildings, or organize the market and other municipal events, or transcribe witnessed contracts on potsherds.

Jensen did most of the last one, since she had the steadiest hands, but Kimball still checked every single one herself. Everything in Atlantis, should it go wrong, was inevitably her responsibility.

Kimball was just sorting the last of a day’s stack when she heard Tucker’s shouted greeting. That, and the smack of bare feet running on the cobblestones, was all the warning she got.

It was enough for her to set down the pottery scraps before a small, lanky form collided with her own, winding a pair of skinny arms around her waist.

Junior gave an affectionate squeeze, and then pulled back, waiting for her to turn around before he started signing.

_You haven’t been by in forever! Caboose said a catfish ate you!_

“Well, if Caboose said so, it must be true,” Kimball said, not bothering to hide her amusement.

Junior made a face at her as his father came up behind him. “We were hoping you’d join us for dinner,” Tucker said, pulling his braids up into a tail. “That is, if you’re not just eating those pots now.”

 _Please please please?_ Junior signed, before Kimball could even think about saying no. He pulled his biggest and wettest lava-puppy eyes on her.

“I can clean up the rest of these myself, Captain,” Jensen said, helpfully appearing from wherever she’d been hiding. She was practically vibrating at the idea of responsibility. Behind her, Palomo looked just as eager at the thought of being unsupervised for a while.

“Get Palomo to help you,” Kimball ordered, hoping that would help temper both of them. “I would be honored,” she added to Junior and Tucker.

Junior made several joyful gestures with his hands before running off ahead towards the edge of the city. Tucker stayed to walk peacefully, the butt of his guard’s spear held loosely over his shoulder to indicate he was off-duty. He gave Kimball a pointed look until she joined him, letting herself relax.

“We’re eating with Grif and Kai tonight,” Tucker said as they crossed the bridge out of Atlantis’s central area.

“You mean we’re eating with Grif and Kai and Simmons tonight,” Kimball translated, letting a small grin out.

“Maybe Caboose, if he stops talking to statues, but probably not.” Tucker tipped his head back to enjoy the last few minutes of fading light.

“What’s the occasion?”

“Can’t you just share a meal with your squad?” Tucker shot her a sidelong look. “Junior wasn’t exaggerating that much. You haven’t been by in a while.”

It wasn’t an accusation, and it was only almost a question. Like he was expecting her to respond badly to any real inquiry.

“I’ve been busy,” Kimball said, not quite apologizing.

“Too busy for us?” The look Tucker gave her now was disturbingly reminiscent of his son’s lava-puppy eyes.

She swung her spear’s shaft to cuff him lightly on the back of the head. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

He grinned, but it didn’t quite stop the pinch of guilt that rose up as they came in sight of his house and saw Grif and Simmons and Kai out on the stepping stone path with their ankles in the water, watching Junior jump around.

The five of them, including Caboose, had been a unit for centuries now. Kimball had been the oldest of the children orphaned in the _Maebehlmohk,_ but far, far from the only one. But of those many children, the ones that had consistently followed her into and out of trouble, even into the Guard, even into the tunnels when they all thought she was crazy, the ones that had never stopped her trying to make things _better_ —those ones were right here.

Well, except for Caboose, who still thought the guardian statues on the edge of the city could hear him and was busy trying to make them listen.

So Kimball, at Tucker’s urging, laid down her spear and her title at the door and let herself eat dinner with her friends.

* * *

 

The next day, Doyle finally met with her again.

He was in the square when she first showed up in the morning, ceremonial staff in one hand and demeanor as haughty and regal as he could manage.

“Lord Doyle,” she greeted him, cautiously.

“Captain Kimball,” he returned, polite as protocol demanded.

“I may have been...overzealous, in demanding your attention to municipal matters.”

Kimball said nothing in response.

“I have been considering many things, in these past ninedays.”

“Contemplating tradition?” Kimball asked, acerbically.

“Tradition has its place. _Captain_.”

“Our traditions were written when our city rested in the middle of the sea, not miles below the earth,” Kimball said, suddenly exhausted with this argument. For millennia they had been having it, ever since she had been old enough to defy whatever Doyle might think was for the good of the city, and what had changed?

Nothing. And yet everything, as Atlantis wore away before their eyes.

“I cannot give you the answers you seek,” Doyle said, suddenly.

Kimball’s automatic response was derision, but she bit down on it. This was a remarkably sudden subject change.

“Those, you will have to find yourself.”

“And where might you suggest that?” She kept her tone mild.

“The tunnels, perhaps.”

Kimball paused and squinted at him, and only went when he gave a solemn nod of confirmation.

But she went like a thrown spear, and didn’t bother slowing down long enough to do more than bang on her squad’s various front walls.

And because her squad was, after all, her friends as well, they acquiesced to her hauling them out with only minimal complaining.

“How far are we going this time?” Grif groaned as they crossed over the rope-and-plank bridge.

Kimball paused and looked back at the city one last time before striding towards the cave entrance. “As far as we need to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~haha holy shit has it really been almost a year~~  
>  This chapter should be the last one where I'm trying to maintain that delicate balance of keeping with the canon story and not retelling so much it gets boring. Next time I get to just go off the rails, especially with the changes in Atlantis. I can't _wait._ :D


End file.
